


Wednesday's Child

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Childhood, Gen, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles doesn't understand the source of his power, only that it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday's Child

Charles is seven years, two hundred and sixty-one days, and fourteen hours old when he realises he's quite different from the boys he knows at school. Or more different than he thought, for his size and shyness (read as arrogance) are a constant target for bullying.

But with a thought, he can stop them.

And he does.

For a while he supposes a spell was cast on him, maybe by the hand of his miserable old maths tutor, or the cook who's constantly shooing him from the larder.

But this thing is a gift -- why would _they_ want to help him? And also, he finds it works as well on them as it does on anyone else, and with enough concentration he can make the tutor tell stories about the Somme rather than grill him on numbers. The cook is even easier: Charles eats biscuits until he's sick.

There are other uses. He tricks his mother into thinking it's the summer hols and spends a week out of school, though it's only March. He would've let it go on longer. But a stray thought tells him his mother wouldn't care even if she knew the truth of it: he'll always be a nuisance.

He knows it isn't magic, then. It's just him.

*

By the time Charles turns eight, his father is dead.

He finds his mother in the parlor one night, several weeks on. She's dressed nicely, as always, but there are lines on her face Charles doesn't recognize; she's pale, and drawn, and her eyes look swollen.

With certainty, he knows she doesn't deserve this. Charles too is angry at his father for leaving them -- why shouldn't he shoulder it alone? He can take it all, and more.

He settles next to his mother on the sofa.

"Get to bed, Charles," she says, but without sounding too cross.

"I will," he whispers. Then he touches the sides of her face. Strokes her temples. Reaches into her mind as gently as he's able, and nudges at her memories, just so. She stares back at him, puzzled at first, and then utterly calm.

"You don't have to worry, Mother. I'll keep us safe."

Charles gives his mother something better to think about. He's seen photos of her as a girl, when she and her sisters would spend time in Brighton with their grandparents. She'd always looked so happy in them -- happier by far than he'd ever seen her.

He gives her this: the feel of sand between her toes, and of the salty breeze on her face. Her sisters' laughter. And her own laughter too. The water is so cold, but they go in anyway--

"Charles?"

"Are you all right, Mother?"

"Yes," she says, shaking herself. There's a smile playing round her mouth. "It's funny, but I was remembering..."

"What was it?"

Her gaze flicks to the mantle clock, and she shakes her head, then points away. "Bed. Now. And no hiding beneath the blankets with a torch and your reader."

Charles unfolds himself from her side and makes for the door. "Mother?"

"Hmm?"

"Good night."

She nods, not unkindly. "Sleep well, Charles."

"You too."

For once, Charles does as his mother asks. His room is totally dark. He likes it that way.

And he waits awake until he hears his mother walking down the hall, opening her bedroom door and closing it again; he waits until he feels her mind drift off into sleep.


End file.
